Anthony Tinoco 

The roar of his own heartbeat still thundered in Tino’s ears, louder than the steady growl of the car’s engine or the distant city sounds pressing in through the windows. His skin tingled from the aftermath, every nerve ending alive and electric.

He loved this.

The surge of adrenaline, the rush that made his skin prick and his mind sharp as a razor. Violence was power to him. Control. A way to carve his place in a world that otherwise tried to bury him. Every punch thrown, every threat silenced, was a claim staked on his own existence. His fists felt like weapons forged from pure will. Their weight, their impact, the precise dance of muscle and bone striking with brutal intent. The gun, light and familiar in his hand, felt like an extension of himself, part of his body, part of his instinct. There was a raw satisfaction in the violence. Something deeper than anger or hate. This life, messy as it was, was the only one he knew, and the one he craved. It beat through his veins, shaping every choice and every step.

As the car sped toward Vic’s shop, Tino let himself sink into that fierce hunger and wild sense of freedom.

“You didn’t hold back in there,” Jamie said, snapping Tino out of his thoughts. There was no surprise in his voice, just acknowledgement.

Tino kept one hand on the wheel, eyes flicking to his bruised knuckles. “The fuck would I? He had it coming.”

“You get too loud. Vic wants the job done, not a scene.”

“Relax.” Tino smirked without looking away from the road. “Job's done, ain't it? What more he want, a cake?”

The car rolled to a stop outside Vic’s shop, a modest, unpretentious garage. The building was plain, with a faded sign above the door that read Auto Repairs in block letters. Nothing flashy, nothing to draw attention. Just enough to blend into the background.

It wasn’t the kind of place that saw much business. A few regulars came by now and then, people who either didn’t ask questions or already knew not to. Sometimes Vic didn’t even bother letting them in, turning folks away at the door. The garage wasn’t really about fixing cars. It was a front for the quieter, far more profitable work that happened behind the roll-up doors and under the floorboards. Drugs moved in and out on schedule, tucked beneath toolboxes and packed in crates labeled “spare parts.”

This was just one of several spots scattered across the city. Small shops, auto garages, and storage units. All set up to launder money and keep product moving under the radar. Each one looked like nothing from the outside, just another forgotten place in a city full of them.

Jamie stepped out of the car and Tino followed, trailing a few steps behind as they crossed the quiet sidewalk. They passed through the open garage bay into the heart of the shop. The air carried the familiar scents of oil and gasoline. Tools hung from pegboards in neat rows. A dismantled engine rested on a lift, surrounded by oil pans and well-used socket wrenches.

In the far corner, Vic stood with his back to them, hunched over a bench, wiping his hands with a rag already black with grease. He turned when he heard footsteps behind him.

Vic was built like a slab of concrete. Head clean-shaven, wide shoulders, thick neck, eyes that didn’t blink more than necessary. Tattoos ran up his arms and disappeared beneath the collar of his work shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His face looked older than it should’ve been, worn by years of smoke and blood. One side of his jaw bore a faint, lopsided scar that pulled when he spoke.

When Jamie walked up to him, Tino hung back, leaning against the brick wall near the entrance. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, flicked it to life, and took a slow drag.

Jamie was always the one to do the talking. Not because he was better at it, but because Tino knew exactly how Vic felt about him. Vic didn’t trust Tino. He never had. Jamie, on the other hand, was calm and calculated, the kind of man Vic respected and listened to.

Tino wasn’t dumb enough to walk in like he owned the place. This was Vic’s turf, and respect was the unspoken rule. He could feel Vic’s cold appraisal every time he stepped through the door, like a constant reminder that Tino was skating on thin ice. It pissed him off, but he swallowed it down. He didn’t need Vic’s approval to know his own worth.

Still, that unspoken distance fueled a quiet hunger inside him. A need to prove he wasn’t just some loose cannon, that he could be as valuable as Jamie, but in his own way.

“We handled John. Gave him till tomorrow to pay up.”

Vic tossed the rag aside without bothering to look up. “Anyone see you?”

“No.”

“Noise?”

“Kept it low. We were in and out. Tino went a little hard, but not stupid hard.”

Vic’s gaze shifted toward Tino, who met his eyes without flinching, fingers absently flicking his lighter open and closed. Vic said nothing to him, but instead turned his attention to Jamie.

“Good. Listen here. We’ve got a new job coming up. Warehouse at Calder Street and Mason Avenue.”

“What kind of job?”

“Pickup and delivery. No mistakes. No heat. Freddy’s watching this one himself.”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Alright. Get outta here. I’ll call if there’s anything else.”

Tino slipped the lighter into his pocket, pushed off the wall, and followed Jamie out of the shop without a word.

After the meeting with Vic, Jamie and Tino moved through their usual routine, being the muscle and presence that kept the machine running smooth. Jamie did the talking; coaxing late payments out of shaky hands, making sure the dealers were squared up without ever raising his voice. Tino didn't bother with subtlety. He made his presence known, leaning in too close, flashing that grin that meant trouble, slamming a fist on the table just to watch people flinch. They hit two pickups before noon, and spent the afternoon checking stash spots and scaring the shit out of some kid who’d been skimming product.

As the sky darkened, they pulled up to a taco stand tucked into a quiet corner. The rich smell of grilled meat and spices hung heavy in the cool night air. They grabbed a couple of foil-wrapped tacos, drove out to a hill on the city’s edge and parked the car near the crest.

The sprawling city lights stretched below them like scattered stars. They climbed out and leaned back against the hood.

“Remember that guy on Maple Street? The one we robbed?” Tino unwrapped his taco, the foil crinkling under his fingers. “Made the best fucking tacos in the world.”

Jamie chuckled. “The guy robbed because he made good food. That’s rough.”

Tino laughed, shaking his head as he wiped a smear of sauce off his chin. He couldn’t remember the taco guy’s name anymore, but the memory of that day stuck clear as glass.

They were just kids when they decided to rob him. The first guy Tino ever held up at gunpoint. It had been Tino’s idea, and Jamie was right there with him, along with Joey. None of them had a dime to their name, just hungry, bored kids looking for some action. Tino had grabbed one of Marco’s guns for the job, trying to look tougher than he felt. Jamie and Joey treated it like a joke, something wild to laugh about later, a stupid thrill. But for Tino, it was different. He hadn’t eaten in days. That wasn’t something he said out loud, though.

“Remember that busted minivan Joey found in the junkyard?”

Jamie let out a short laugh. “The one he tried to hotbox?”

Tino grinned. “Thing didn’t even have windows. Straight up missing, just big ass holes where the glass used to be.”

Jamie shook his head. “He climbed in all serious too. Rolled the sliding door shut like he was about to go on a vision quest.”

“Lit a joint, sat there pretending to be zooted while the wind blew right through that piece of shit.”

“He came out acting like he’d touched the universe.” Jamie laughed harder.

“Swear to God,” Tino said, “he looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘That was spiritual, bro. I communed with the streets.’ Like it was some ancient ritual.”

“He smoked half a joint and saw God in a junkyard.”

They both fell quiet for a second, the laughter trailing off into the night air.

Joey had died four years ago. Shot in the head during a deal gone south in Red Hill. Tino didn’t talk about it much. None of them did. But every once in a while, Joey’s name came up, tangled in the middle of some stupid story like this one. Like he never really left.

Jamie glanced over, breaking the comfortable silence. “Do you like this?”

Tino was caught off guard. “What? Sittin’ here?”

“No. All this. This life, I mean. Do you like it?”

He shrugged, tearing a piece off his taco. “It’s alright.” He caught Jamie watching him, a quiet weight behind his green eyes.

Jamie didn’t look like someone who grew up with a father who threw punches when the bottle ran dry, or someone who’d spent his teenage years learning how to survive in a house full of shouting and broken things. No, Jamie looked clean. Like a university student or a barista or someone’s older brother picking them up from school. The kind of guy who paid his taxes, held the door open for strangers, and apologized if he bumped into you on the sidewalk. His face was open and calm, borderline gentle, and it threw people off. He even carried himself like someone harmless, relaxed shoulders, hands always visible, voice level and polite. That was the point, Tino figured. There were no tattoos on him, no visible scars, no trace of the kind of life they lived. Just simple, well-fitting clothes. A plain t-shirt, clean jacket, nice shoes. Nothing flashy, nothing sloppy. He moved like someone who didn’t have anything to hide.

That look wasn’t carelessness. It was strategy. Jamie had chosen this. The quiet, the neatness, the forgettable boy-next-door vibe. He’d never been one to intimidate, but blend in. It was a costume, and a damn good one. It let him navigate between worlds without drawing the wrong kind of attention. Like he wasn’t carrying all that damage underneath. And maybe that was what made him so dangerous.

All the effort it took to seem effortless. Tino had always found it funny.

“Do you?”

Jamie didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark streetlights far below. His jaw tightened for a moment before he shrugged, like he was weighing the words inside him, deciding which to let go.

“I mean… there’s gotta be more than just this, right?”

Tino frowned, brows pulling together like a storm rolling in. “More than what? Money?”

Jamie shook his head. “Not just money. I don’t know… something else. Something better.”

“Better?” His tone sharpened. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean better. Without all this mess.”

Tino scoffed. “Better how? Working some dead-end job? Living paycheck to paycheck like your broke-ass neighbor? You wanna punch a clock, sit in some cubicle, nod at Carl while he won’t shut up about his fantasy football team? Yeah, sounds fucking magical, Jamie.”

Jamie didn’t meet his eyes. He tore the last bit of his taco apart slowly, like the words in the air were heavier than the food in his hands.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot.” Tino’s voice dropped. “You keep talking like that, someone’s gonna hear it the wrong way.  Keep that shit to yourself.”

The silence stretched between them. Jamie finally looked up. “It was just a thought.”

Tino’s mouth tightened, the anger still simmering but folding into something rawer, harder to name. “Well, how about you think a little fucking quieter?”

Jamie’s gaze drifted back to the city. The tension hung heavy, words left unsaid between them, but for now that was enough. Tino didn’t want to hear it anyway.